


cataclysm in the kitchen

by lunarism



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Exes to Lovers, Getting Back Together, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Sex, Kissing, M/M, Metaphors, Miya Osamu-centric, Mutual Pining, Post-Time Skip, Red String of Fate, atsumu is a good brother, kita is a good friend, not really tho, sorry - Freeform, soulmates are mentioned but its not really a soulmate au but it kinda is but it isnt, suna is a piece of shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:20:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29340462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunarism/pseuds/lunarism
Summary: Suna looks at him expectantly, guiltily.He looks at him like he actually has feelings. He looks at him as if he’s not a dickhead for the first time since they decided to catch up and, maybe, he is trying after all.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 11
Kudos: 38
Collections: SunaOsa Valentine's Exchange





	cataclysm in the kitchen

**Author's Note:**

> Happy (early) valentines hope you enjoy!!  
> \+ Sorry for teasin, it isnt actually 13k, but i hope ya like it regardless haha

It’s numbing; the way he closes his eyes and he’s led to nowhere. 

There’s a gentle tug that has him flying forward onto the balls of his feet, like a string wound around his heart pulling and pulling and pulling. Pulling him forwards until he feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to fall. But then the tug stops, the string loosening from it’s constriction on his heart and leaving Osamu tiptoeing on the edge, wondering if this same string will one day eventually lead him to somewhere, to _someone_. But it doesn’t, or it hasn’t. Not yet. 

Osamu imagines this string red. Deep, blood red like wine, like... _something_. Red, like the old jacket he used to wear over his old volleyball uniform back in highschool. Red, as if his own blood runs through the string, dying it crimson as it tugs him onward into whoever’s arms belong to that one person unlucky enough to have been crafted atom by atom to fall into his. 

He curls in on himself, tucking his blanket further under his head to ensure the onslaught of sunlight stays out of his vision, his phone repetitively alarming him that it’s already 6AM. Osamu huffs, reaching out from under his blanket to click his phone off, untucking the fabric and letting in the cold morning air. He pulls the blanket under himself as he retracts his hand back into the warmth, enclosing him in and cutting off the chill.

Irritation seeps through him as he squeezes his eyes shut, kicking himself for forgetting to turn off his usual daily alarm and consequently ruining one of his rare off-days. Taking a breath to steady his heart, he wills himself back to sleep as he feels the weight of fatigue finally settle. 

It’s uncommon for Osamu to feel exhaustion rest so heavily into every single muscle and bone and joint in his body, but every now and then he’s haunted by a string so suffocating that when he’s woken with a tug, so gentle that it’s reminiscent of that of a ghost yet so harsh that he’s jerked awake, he can still feel the phantom unravelling string in the cavity of his chest. 

The same tug is so, so gentle as it pulls him back in, tangling over his heart and painting his vision red as he reaches out, over the cliff, ready to fall into the abyss. 

**Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzzzrt. Bzzt. Bz-**

He whips his phone off of his bedside table, giving in to the alarm as he throws the covers off of the rest of his body, and stretches. Exhaustion sinks further into him as he cracks his neck backwards then to the side, blinking the bleariness from his vision whilst he drags himself out of bed. He picks up his phone from where it was flug fortunately onto a pillow that had fallen onto the floor, clearing his notifications as he navigates the small confines of his apartment. 

The static of his T.V. doesn’t do the match in front of him justice, though it’s already concluding and heading into the post-match interviews. Osamu sighs, lugging himself up as he grabs the now empty dishes off of the table beside him. Aran’s voice rings in his ears, answering a question about his future advertisements and goals as Osamu drops the dishes into his sink. 

He peeks at the sliver of the screen that isn’t obstructed by one of the chairs in his living room, craning his neck to get a better view of the interview just as the screen cuts from Aran to Atsumu and Sakusa. 

Osamu smiles to himself briefly, turning back to the sink to rinse the soap from his mug as the on-screen Atsumu talks animatedly about how amazing it was to see and play against Aran again, as if he doesn’t visit him at least every other week.

They looked good together, Atsumu and Sakusa. 

It’s the same thing that’s been shocking Osamu since that one December that Atsumu brought Sakusa home, showed him round the house a bit, and then introduced him to their Ma as Omikun, his _soulmate_. 

Osamu had known this since they were 16, remembering Atsumu’s wavering voice, pitchy through the speaker of his phone as he babbled heartbreak over a boy his age with curly black hair that he met at his youth training camp. 

“Yer at a camp with some of the best volleyball players of our generation ‘n’ yer lookin’ for boys,” Samu teased over the line until Atsumu cut him off with a sniffle.

“My _soulmate_ , ‘Samu,” and Osamu gulped, swallowing the lump of spit and tension and distrust at the mere idea of a soulmate all the way down his throat. Soulmates don’t exist, but Atsumu’s a hopeless romantic fool enough to persuade Osamu against the fact. 

“But how did ya… how did ya know that he was… ‘y’know,” he pried, entertaining Atsumu’s fantasy that each person had someone out there dedicated to them wholeheartedly. 

“Ya just… can tell. Like y’know when ya close yer eyes ‘n’ it feels like… yer bein’ led somewhere? Like that. I saw ‘im, ‘n’ I knew that this was it. But it wasn’t all sparks ‘n’ fairytales ‘n’ all the things they tell ya, ‘Samu, he told me t’ fuck off when I walked up t’ him”. Osamu had laughed at him then, but when Atsumu flopped onto the couch on his first day back home from the camp, defeated smile tugging at his lips, Osamu knew Atsumu’s heart was freshly broken and bleeding. Maybe he’s a hopeless romantic too, who knows. 

Osamu had hated, or at least extremely disliked, Sakusa for the entirety of their first year of highschool, and then some. Only channeling that extreme dislike into toleration when Atsumu nodded at Osamu with a thumbs up on his first night back from his second year at his training camp and declared them to be on _okay terms_. 

Yet here they were, Atsumu and Sakusa. Here _Osamu_ was, watching the two of them grow together, understanding his disbelief in this soulmate shit started and ended with them. 

He dried his hands with the towel hooked near the sink, scrambling to find the remote once he’d made himself comfortable on his couch. 

“Finally, I’d like to ask you about your upcoming charity game against EJP Raijin,” _ah_. The question filters out into something about Sakusa and Komori being cousins and playing against each other, but not before Osamu catches the, “Miya-san, you have a history with Suna Rintarou of EJP Raijin, am I correct?” Osamu notices a touch of crimson of a leaf that blows past the window, clicking the screen off. 

* * *

Osamu cards a hand through his hair as he settles down at his kitchen table to read through his emails, rechecking the order for the next shipment of ingredients. His phone screen lights up beside him, vibrations sending the device ajar on the table as **TSUMU INCOMING CALL** flashes across the screen. It takes every fibre of Osamu’s being to not click the tomato-red decline button and accept the call instead. 

Before he gets a singular breath in, Atsumu bombards him with, “Oi, did ya’ watch my match? I tried out a new move with Omi did ya see?” and Osamu grins besides himself. 

He hums, changing between tabs, “I caught the match. For Aran-kun, though,” Atsumu cusses him out in Portugese then English, apparently Shouyou teaches them foreign swears in their free time. 

“Anyway…” Atsumu dawdles, “are ya vendin’?” 

He hums again, opening up his confirmation email, “managed t’ snag a booth close t’ the entrance” Atsumu hums back at him and Osamu slides down his chair. He’s excited; it’d be good for business, with the next branch planned to open in Osaka. The situation’s perfect; he’d advertise as much as possible in his little booth by the entrance, draw in a crowd, y’know the works, the whole shebang, then redirect everyone to the twitter page for updates on the new place. It’d give him an excuse to visit the city (and Atsumu). 

Osamu falls into a comfortable silence, drowning out his brother’s rambling about how his new shorts feel or about his latest date with _Omikun_ , until Atsumu isn’t actually talking anymore, finding himself in his own little silent bubble. 

“It’s against EJP,” takes Osamu out of the bubble he’d created and into Atsumu’s. 

“I… am aware,” Osamu articulates, minimising all of his tabs, desktop now spotless if not for the bombardment of icons filling up the dock at the bottom of the screen. 

“So…” 

“So _what_ ,” he spits, chewing at his lip. The temptation to start gurgling into his speaker and tell Atsumu that “oh.. **Cuurrrckk crrr** … going through **cuURRHHK** … tunnel” and then hang up, sets in strong and he has to put his phone down to prevent it.

“Suna.” Atsumu deadpans, as if that answers all of the world’s questions. 

“What about ‘im?” his lips were now bitten close to raw, reddening as he dragged his teeth across the skin. 

“Cut the shit, ‘Samu. Ya haven’t seen each other in like four years,” he _knows_ and it stings a bit to think about.

Instead he spouts his stupid, “sure we have”, and he can feel Atsumu’s eyes roll all the way around his head, like a silly little marble, even though he can’t see him. 

There’s a scoff on the other end of the line that drives irritation into Osamu’s chest, “yeah. Sure ya have! How could I have forgotten, when ya see ‘im before ya click the off switch on yer remote whenever one of his ads come on the T.V.” the irritation spreads faster at the sarcasm dripping from Astumu’s vocals.

“What’s yer point?” he’s going to twist Atsumu’s nipple off, maybe even cut up his new shorts. 

“Ya gonna be okay?” nevermind. 

Is he gonna be okay? Sure he is, he’s a grown man, “I can handle being in the same room as ‘im, it’s whatever.” And it _is_ whatever, or it should be whatever. He wants it to be whatever. He doesn’t know anymore, his head hurts. 

“M’kay, jus’ wanted ta make sure, y’know,” Atsumu’s evidently worried, and the tone lacing his words reminds him of the way he felt when he watched his brother’s heart break for the first time when they were 16.

Osamu only nods and mutters a quick “yeah, ‘kay, see ya” before he hangs up, because it’s whatever. 

* * *

He’s reaching out, over the cliff. It’s hazy and dark and so, so cold. So cold, that the warmth that wraps around the palm of his hand and weaves between his fingers feels like red-hot fire. The heat spreads across his skin, scorching him, burning into his touch and distracting him from the certain constraint around his heart that tells him to keep reaching out, to fall. 

So, he does _._

He falls backwards and hugs the cliffside as his body becomes a vessel for wildfire, burning the string wrapped around his heart to ashes and dust and smoke. 

“‘Samu.”

When Osamu opens his eyes, he’s staring at nothing but abyss and lamp light, stars hidden by the fog of the clouds, an imperfect night.

“It’s raining, we gotta go,” and like that he feels the first drops of rain speckle onto his cheek. They’re gonna get sick, watching the way the darkness clouds over the sky, their backs pressed firm against grass that looks closer to black than it is to green, except for a circle near the swings that’s illuminated by a street lamp. 

He feels Rintarou’s thumb smooth over his palm, carding heat over his skin and shielding him from the cold. He squeezes his hand back, reassuring, then pulls, sending Rin rolling towards him with a yelp before eyes go dark and lips turn smug. 

“You shouldn’t’ve done that, ‘Samu,” he starts, tucking a hand around the back of Osamu’s neck, fingers inching slightly under the collar of his shirt. 

“Or else?” he teases back, his own lips tugging upwards as Rin’s body shield’s him from the swell of the rain. Rin scoffs and Osamu’s heartbeat speeds up, squeezing against its confines to thump against his chest as Rin’s finger comes to tilt his chin up. 

“Or else,” Rin mimics, pausing, before his hand stretches down the collar of Osamu’s shirt and redistributes freshly plucked, wet grass across Osamu’s skin. In the one second his chest was exposed to the chill and rain, he’d pushed Rintarou away with a shriek, Rin’s laugh boisterous in his ears as he flops back onto the grass. 

Osamu settles, letting the rain pelt his skin and blur his vision and wet the silver of his hair into a dark grey, shirt dampening at the onslaught before heat wraps around his wrists and tugs him upwards, “c’mon we’ve still got class tomorrow,” Rintarou says it as if he doesn’t know Atsumu’s been on Osamu’s ass since 4PM with texts about his whereabouts. 

Instead, Osamu throws his own handful of wet grass at him and receives his damp hoodie thrown back at him in exchange, wet sleeves dragging across his face and redistributing so much rain across his skin that he has no other choice but to pull Rintarou in and cradle his face with the wetness of his sleeves. He yelps at the cold, pushing Osamu away as he slips on the grass and mud below them, only for Osamu to fall in an attempt at tugging him back onto his feet. They groan, and then they laugh, rain washing away the grime of the mud from their forearms as they bask in the downpour. 

A circle of heat blooms on his chin as his head’s tilted up, feverish against the cold and his heartbeat skyrockets. Rintarou’s hands stroke through his hair, around the back of his neck and down to cradle around his waist to pull him in, enveloping him in inferno. It hurts so much it’s numbing as the fire finally sparks onto his lips and wraps around his tongue and consumes him whole. 

* * *

The stadium roars, cheers charging through the building as Atsumu goes to serve, and then silence. The space in front of Osamu clears enough for him to catch a glimpse at the next set unfolding, the once full line in front of his booth having dispersed into their seats as people watch to see which serve in Atsumu’s arsenal is going to kick off the set. It’s going to be killer either way, with the amount of skill Osamu knows Atsumu to have honed. 

The ball’s up in the air and struck to the ground, a service ace seemingly under the Jackals’ belt until Washio receives it, bumping it to his team. Osamu whistles at the sound that reverberates from the ball hitting against his skin, telling Akaashi that he could 100%, definitely, without a doubt, also receive that monstrosity, even though they both know otherwise. 

“They’re monsters,” Akaashi states. It’s the name that’s been given to that generation: to Akaashi’s boyfriend, to Osamu’s brother, to Osamu’s brother’s boyfriend, to Osamu’s ex. And it was a name well-deserved, with the match’s intensity from the get go, title of Division 1 holding strong for both teams. 

Osamu hates to admit it, but the dedication that his brother has put into the sport really has manifested something great out of him, and it’s almost terrifying to see that the amount of strength and control that Atsumu puts behind each serve is actually humanly possible. It’s even more terrifying to see people actively pursue that ball. They’re all monsters. It’s the kind of fear that drives pride straight into Osamu’s heart, their hard work paid off and they’ve only just started reaping the benefits. 

He can’t help but be proud of Atsumu, and it utterly disgusts him. He’s sick with pride at the thought of Atsumu having fun, twinning grins plastered across both of their faces as Atsumu shows off and Osamu scoffs. 

He hands two tuna onigiri to Akaashi. It’s their _thing_ now; to sit and make fun of and be in awe of their loved ones and it really does make for a great time. They admire Bokuto’s strength and cheer for Shouyou’s receives and make fun of the way Atsumu looks stupidly in love with the ball over and over again when he goes it set it. Their skill is truly jaw dropping and he can feel the irritation seep through both Atsumu and Akaashi when his set gets blocked, rebounding onto MSBY’s side of the net and scoring a point for EJP Raijin. 

Irritation sets into his own bones too, watching the yellow of Suna’ Rintarou’s jersey retreating as he gets into his position for the next serve. His lips are pulled into a stupid smirk when he turns around to face the net and it pisses Osamu off. It’s _been_ pissing Osamu off, ever since Suna lazily stepped onto the court housing the same stupid smirk and eyed the other team up and down. 

And now, Suna squats and waits for the ball, muscles in his thighs flexing with sweat at his position and it’s infuriating to watch. It’s infuriating to watch in the same way that it’s ridiculous how his arm whips through the air when he spikes a ball, or the way that it’s disgusting how his spine curves and announces the mobility in his back when he blocks. It’s so infuriating in the way that everything about Suna is so dangerously and sickeningly distracting that it has Osamu chewing at his lip and gripping his uniform in frustrated anger at the mere sight of Suna on court. 

“Mya-sam,” Osamu hears the call like an echo, the previous three other ‘Mya-sam’s diffusing together and rattling in his brain as his attention’s stripped from Suna and onto Akaashi and then onto the rest of the game. 

Osamu’s packing away the last of the leftover onigiri into a bag to give to Akaashi, knowing his friend’s affinity for them as he shoves a piece of paper with ‘ _on the house’_ scrawled neatly onto it in blue ink. The match ended with a resounding victory for EJP Raijin, but judging from the live feed of the post match interviews being broadcast across the screens in the stadium, there were no hard feelings. 

He sees Akaashi off, watching him for a few seconds so that he could catch Bokuto’s eye for a wave before the couple depart, going back to store away the leftover leaflets and wipe down the booth once they had left. He cracks his knuckles, swiping over the surface one last time and throwing the towel into a bag filled with other miscellaneous cloths from the day that he needed to wash later. 

“Don’t tell me you’re already closed,” he can barely hear the voice over the chatter and commotion of the other vendors closing up shop around him, yet it’s unexpected and obvious address to Osamu still managed to genuinely shock him, not expecting any customers to be hanging around long enough to find him with an empty booth. 

He exhales, laughing out a quick apology as he turns to greet them, ready to advertise the new Osaka branch to the unsuspecting victim, but he’s halted midturn, hands falling from where they were ready to grab a leaflet from a box that he had yet to close, and the advertisement drying, pasty in his throat as he stares at Suna’s yellow collar. 

Suna mutters a quick “hey,” a hand going to rub at his nape but Osamu’s mind’s still buffering enough that can’t seem to decide on whether he wants to reply or turn away and keep closing up shop, but there’s a distinct heaviness that sits in his chest, anchoring his feet to the ground for a second longer than what was comfortable. So, he mumbles out his own greeting and picks up the first of the boxes to load onto a trolley to take to Atsumu’s car. 

“Need a hand?” 

“I’ve got it,” he says, like an idiot, as he walks hip first into the corner of the booth and Suna has the gall to laugh at him. 

“It’s been a while, huh?” Suna stifles his laughter, the same disgustingly smug smirk he wore in high school toying at his lips “we haven’t had time to catch up in years.” 

Osamu scoffs, a smile gracing his lips as they fall into something akin to their old banter. He was an asshole too, after all. “There’s not much to catch ya up on,” he says, again like an idiot, as he stares at Division 1 athlete Suna Rintarou, as Division 1 athlete Suna Rintarou stares at successful chain business owner Miya Osamu. There’s not much to catch each other up on. 

“Fine, sure. Let’s catch up,” he retaliates against Suna’s smugness and arched eyebrow, shoving the box into his arms and leading him to Atsumu’s car. 

Osamu isn’t entirely sure on where they’re going to _catch up_ , filtering through the streets of Osaka with clammy hands shoved straight into the pockets of his jacket. Suna walks alongside him, his signature slouch weighing him down, lips pursed into a whistle as they loiter around a 7-Eleven that was dangerously too close to the hotel Osamu was staying at for the weekend. 

It’s not quiet, and it hasn’t been quiet, not with the traffic and bikes and people with their tiny little dogs running past them, yet silence diffuses thick between Osamu and Suna, resting heavily in the gap between their shoulders. The silence is uncomfortable but not unwelcome, reminiscent of all the time when they were 20 and 21 and 22 and 23 when the silence between them was the only distinguishing factor in their relationship. It’s such a stark contrast from them at 16 and 17 and 18 and 19 that now, nearing 24, Osamu finds more alien than their current predicament. 

“Why aren’t you staying at Atsumu’s in the first place?” it’s a conversation starter, if anything, words colliding with the silence and cracking it right down the centre. 

“‘M 6’2, ‘m not sleepin’ on his couch,” Osamu takes a sewing machine to the silence, stitching it neatly, quickly, back together again with a roll of blue thread before Suna’s laugh comes like a seam ripper, undoing each of the individual stitches and leaving commotion in their wake. 

“You’re right,” Suna doesn’t say anything else, and neither does Osamu, but the thundering in Osamu’s chest replaces the once heavy silence that sat between them and both Suna and the people still running around them with their tiny little dogs remain blissfully unaware of his turmoil. Osamu finds himself regretting his agreement to _catch up_ for the sole reason that he knows nothing about Suna Rintarou at 23 other than the fact that he just won a volleyball match and the fact that he looks stupidly good in yellow. 

It angers him to a degree, the way Suna waltzes into his life, setting everything ablaze just after Osamu’s thrown buckets after buckets of water to dwindle the flames. “This is me,” he bites out, thumbing in the direction of the hotel building that was still ten or so minutes ahead of them and Suna all but gapes at him. 

“Wait, ‘Samu.”

“What, Suna,” he feels the spittle of anger start to boil, Suna’s name bitter on his tongue and, by the look that flashes across Suna’s eyes, Osamu knows Suna’s back there too. 

There’s a breeze that blows past them and it chills Osamu enough for him to realise that he’s more pissed off at himself than anything else, any anger that he held for Suna having dissolved into something more akin to a simmering intolerance over the years. And yet, he stands with his thick eyebrows drawn in and his fists balled tighter inside his pockets as he locks eyes with Suna. He watches Suna’s throat bob up and down, swallowing down the tension he didn’t know had built up and stressed his throat. 

“I’m sorry.” Oh. Osamu’s gaze drops and he’s so, so mad at himself. 

“We’re not doing this right now.” 

“Then when,” his heart aches at the fragility in Suna’s voice. 

“I don’t know.”

“ _Osamu._ ”

“Suna, leave it,” and it settles. Suna looks at him expectantly, guiltily. He looks at him like he actually has feelings. He looks at him as if he’s not a dickhead for the first time since they decided to _catch up_ and, maybe, he is trying after all. “I’m not ready,” it’s a surprise to himself, but he unpockets his hand to cradle Suna’s cheek and smooth out the frown etching into his jaw, “‘m just not ready, yet.” 

“Okay.” 

Suna nods at him as Osamu sees him off, even though Suna had offered to walk him the rest of the way to the hotel and all the way to the door of his room, and when he finally shuts the door he feels a cold pang of blunt pain in his chest rather than a building inferno. It’s a persistent pain, one that has him squeezing his eyes shut and taking an obscenely deep breath to try to quell. A pain that hurts like a stitch that comes stabbing at your sides when you’re only half way through a marathon. It’s all the same anyway, he tries to reason with himself; Suna Rintarou’ll come into his life, fuck it up, and leave again. It hurts.

_“You’re not meant to love me. You don’t love me, Rin.”_

_“I do.”_

“Can ya stop fuckin’ around, Rin,” he feels like a fucking teenager again. 

* * *

“‘M not telling ya t’ get in a relationship or anything but,” Osamu mutes his T.V., hearing the rustling on Atsumu’s end of the line and he puts his phone on speaker quick enough that he can hear Bokuto yelp in the background, “ya got no friends.” _Ouch_. 

“I have friends.”

‘Name three.”

“Akaashi,” he opens his mouth to list off his multitude of meaningful relationships, “Kita-san.” He buffers. 

“Doesn’t count.” Osamu thinks he can hear Bokuto’s _I’m his friend_ and he smiles to himself. This is unbelievable; Atsumu has more friends than him. Truly baffling. “‘Samu, ‘m just sayin’,” a pause, “ya gettin’ old now dontcha think,” Atsumu’s stupidity riles him up to such a degree that only Osamu’s confusion can subdue the stubborn irritation from building, “like, what’ll ya do when ‘m long gone, huh?” 

“Ya wanna find out?” 

“Oi.” 

“Why are ya on ‘m ass about ‘m relationships?” _what are ya gettin’ at here?_

“I know ya went home with Suna,” _oh._ “‘M not tellin’ ya to forgive him, or anythin’, but… he doesn’t seem like a bad guy that much anymore, y’know.” He _does_ know. He saw it in the way Suna helped a bird get out of the road and the way genuine guilt laced his being before Osamu took a sledgehammer to his apology. “You were best friends.” 

Conveniently, an ad for protein powder flashes across his T.V., Suna Rintarou and the rest of EJP decked out in yellow to grace the screen. Then, he hangs up. It takes a second or two for his phone to start ringing again, and then buzzing with a landslide of texts that Osamu knows to be from Atsumu. He ignores his phone for the T.V.; the powder came in a bright red tub, contrasted with the pale yellowness of the jackets thrown around it in a way that reminds Osamu of McDonalds rather than in a way that makes him want to buy the product. He downloads tinder. 

* * *

There’s another chime from the front door, that has Osamu looking up to see how long the line in front of him is getting as people filter in during their lunch break. Onigiri is a quick and simple snack which, when paired with something like miso soup, can make for a hearty lunch. Nice. It’s usually busy around this time so Osamu works up no sweat, serving customer after customer until his restaurant starts to empty just after 2PM. He goes to wipe some tables down, lunch hour comes like a tornado in a way that’s good for business but bad for his aesthetics. 

A breeze hits his legs, telling him that he has a new customer before the bell above the door rattles, and he looks up from a table to gauge his next task, ready to run behind the counter if need be. 

His eyesight is immaculate, and he catches the familiar slouch that's been carved into his memory waltz into his restaurant and right up to where he’s scraping dried rice off of a table. “What ya doin’ here?” he doesn’t mean to sound as harsh as he did, but he’s tired from the lunch rush, so he laughs to compensate. 

“I live here?” Suna’s brow raises and his lips quirk up. _Damn_.

“No,” he says more to himself than to the other, “ya fuckin’ don’t?” he says more to Suna. 

“Yes, I do. Off-season,” he says it like it clarifies his reason for being _here_ , at Onigiri Miya. 

“Yer not even from Hyogo,” Osamu says instead. 

“I’ve lived here most of my life.”

“Like four years.”

“Most of the important parts of my life.” 

“Listen, why are ya here,” Osamu is so tired. 

Suna smiles, pearly whites for the world to see, “wanted to visit you, support the new business and whatnot,” _Osamu is so tired._

“It’s been two years.”

“Better late than never.”

“Suna, what do you _want_.”

“I never got your phone number?” _what,_ “and you don’t check your instagram dms?”

“Yer tryin’ to slide into my dms?” 

“No,” Osamu looks at him pointedly, eyebrow quirked to the heavens and a smirk threatening his lips, “yes?” He laughs in Suna’s face and it’s loud enough to catch the attention of a few of his customers. Suna laughs back, albeit sheepish, a hand coming up to rub at his nape as he follows Osamu to the counter, “I’m serious. What if you decide that you wanna hang out? Or you wanna invite me to your birthday party? Maybe talk about what happened? How are you gonna reach me when you -”

“I forgive you.” He thinks about his call with Atsumu, and the _‘you were best friends’_ , and the unopened tinder app still sitting among instagram and sudoku. 

“Like when you find a meme that _what?_ ”

“I forgive you. We’re not gonna talk about what happened,” he hears a chime, “yet. I get off in like 3.”

“Minutes?” 

“Hours.” 

“Right, so...” 

“Rin, ‘m at work,” he looks between Suna and the group of teenagers that had just walked in marking the end of the school day and the start of the post-work rush. 

“Okay...” he does nothing to step away from the counter, “okay. Also, can I get two salmon...” 

“Yessir!” Osamu beams at him, voice dripping with customer service as Suna finally, _finally,_ steps out of the line. 

* * *

**[01:53 PM] SUNA :** here

shit ok **: YOU [01:53 PM]**

Osamu swings the door open, toothbrush ajar in his mouth as he lets Suna in. “Leave yer stuff in the spare room, it’s just,” he points to one of the three doors down the hallway, “you’ll find it”, and he makes his way back into the bathroom. 

He stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, harsh white light highlighting the parts of his moisturiser that he didn’t rub into his skin properly. _This isn’t a date_ , he reasons with himself, even though he’d slicked his hair back and his _fancy_ jacket’s on his bed ready for him to grab before they leave. It literally wasn’t a date; Suna’s in Hyogo for the reunion and Osamu has a spare room that actually has a bed in it. He shoves his toothbrush back in the pot on the sink and combs a hand through his hair to ruffle it up a little. 

When he walks into his living room he’s confronted by Suna draped across his couch as if it isn’t the first time he’s ever stepped foot in the place, and Osamu finally has time to take in the sight of all that was _Rintarou_ and the way his jeans hugged his thighs. He clears his throat, leaning against the doorway and watching the way Suna straightens up so quickly that he thinks he heard his spine crackle under the movement, though it probably didn’t with Suna’s flexibility. 

“Let’s go?” Suna’s halfway to pocketting his phone as he waits for a reply. Osamu hums a ‘yes’ and pulls on his jacket, tugging his jumper sleeves down from where they’d bunched up to his forearms. 

With one last look in the mirror they’re off, and Osamu only has half the mind to check that his phone and wallet are in his pocket once they’re already sat and waiting for their ramen orders to process. 

It’s a local place that they used to go to after school and on the weekends when they were younger, and Suna had sent 18 voice messages detailing exactly why he and Osamu had to go once Suna was in town. They talk about nothing, useless blabber about Suna’s commute and Osamu’s work schedule that, knowing Suna, he isn’t going to remember for the upcoming week. They talk about what’s going to happen when Atsumu finally gets here (he’s sleeping on the couch), and about Suna’s little sister that Osamu hasn’t seen in a while. 

Their food comes, and they talk some more. It’s dark outside, the sun having retreated under the skyline two whole hours ago to commemorate November's nightfall. 

When they step outside it’s colder than what it was when they left Osamu’s apartment, though not unbearable as a gentle breeze curls around the tips of Osamu’s ears and stains them pink. He shoves his hands in his pockets, trying to keep his fingers warm so he doesn’t fumble too badly with the keys once they get back to his apartment but Suna takes a detour. 

“Wrong way, dipshit,” he teases, feet planted to the ground just outside the restaurant.

“No, it’s not.” and Osamu sees it; the little ice cream parlour they used to go to on the hotter days in July. It’s closed now, Osamu thinks it has been since he was at least 21, but there are still benches and tables and little signs in the window keeping its memory strong. He’s lived here, in Hyogo, all his life and Osamu finds that only now, when he’s standing near the old shop’s door with Suna, that he misses it. He feels nostalgia and longing wind around and tug at his heart. 

“I miss their vanilla,” Suna quips, perching on the edge of a table outside the parlour, there’s a tinge of sadness in his voice but when Osamu looks at him there’s the softest vision of a smile gracing his lips. Osamu has to suck on his tongue to keep his throat from drying without a response. 

“Still can’t believe ya wouldn’t branch out,” he manages. Every single memory Osamu has of Suna with ice cream is with that of smooth vanilla, if Suna were to branch out he maybe would’ve paid a little extra for strawberry sauce on top. 

“There’s beauty in simplicity, ‘Samu,” ironic, Osamu thinks, knowing Suna, who laughs at him from where he’s sat. 

Osamu sits on his own table, legs crossed in a way that stabilizes him against the old wood of the bench. His heart hurts, he thinks, he feels so small in this world, like he’s missed out on so much, he thinks he’s going through a mild existential crisis and when he looks at Suna it only hurts more that he wants him so bad. 

Suna looks contentedly at the stars, soft smile still gracing his lips, but there’s a certain sadness in his eyes that has Osamu missing the ice cream parlour’s vanilla too. 

“Man, I really miss their vanilla,” Suna repeats, finally looking away from the stars and at Osamu instead, scoffing out a laugh at the ‘OUT OF BUSINESS’ sign plastered inside the window. Osamu huffs, pushing himself off of the table and reaching out a hand to help Suna up instead of gawking at the way Suna’s mouth curves captivatingly around a laugh.

It’s never gonna open up again and it hurts to think about them and their vanilla ice cream. Osamu thinks it hurts in a good way, but it hurts nonetheless, and he actually was getting cold now, with the wind spotting redness onto his cheeks. So, he drags Suna half way back to his apartment without looking back at the sharpness of his jaw, without saying another word about vanilla ice cream, and without letting go of his hand. 

There’s a brief moment of darkness when they step into Osamu’s apartment, the door having shut and the curtains drawn enough to obstruct most of the streetlight, before Osamu fumbles for the light switch. He has to blink twice for his eyes to adjust to the now-brightness in his hallway, standing awkwardly next to Suna as he catches him blinking back. 

“D’ya wanna shower first? I can show ya how t’ turn it on?” Osamu, ever so hospitable, offers, to which Suna just nods a yes. 

He shows Suna how to fix the showerhead in order to get the best water pressure, and how to keep the water from running too hot, and when Osamu steps out of the bathroom, he can finally feel the weight of fatigue inching down his shoulders. 

He needs to shower before he gets into bed, though, opting to pass time by over-steeping his chamomile tea. He places the kettle gently back onto the stovetop, leaning an elbow onto the counter and supporting his chin on his hand. 

There’s a swirl of colour weaving out of the teabag and tingeing the water and his other hand comes up to absently tap along the side of his mug. The tips of his fingers sting a bright red when he takes them away from the surface. Too hot. He throws the teabag out and dilutes the drink with cold water, readying it for drinking. He’ll leave the box of teabags out for Suna if he wants any, but he’s not going as far as brewing him a cup himself, especially when he takes a sip and cringes at the bitterness that coats his tongue. 

Osamu scrolls through his instagram feed, idly liking posts until he has half the mind to check his messages, and sure enough there was one from sunarin_10. Clicking on the profile, he takes in his bio and the follow _back_ button and clicks, watching blue turn to white as a dropdown of other suggested accounts appear. 

He’s no stranger to Suna Rintarou’s social media accounts, having checked up on his games and his brand deals and whatever it was he was doing, whoever it was that he was doing, in the time they’d called it quits. 

It was a healthy coping mechanism, he’d thought. He would go about his day, check his social media engagements for his _new business_ , and then get stuck in the social media wormhole. 

He’d stopped when one of his employees walked in on him and asked if he ‘was a fan, too?’ Osamu thinks it was their fleeting comment that helped him finally move on, that and the fact that Atsumu had called him pathetic at one point because of it, and Osamu couldn’t even retaliate because of Atsumu’s distinct lack of… _an ex_. But from the way sunarin_10 pops up and disappears randomly, from his notification feed, on days where Osamu hasn’t even posted, Osamu knows he isn’t the only victim of instagram’s vortex. 

Osamu scoffs, downing the bitterness of his tea as he realises his thumb’s mindless scrolling down the length of Suna’s posts. He clicks his phone off. 

There’s a soft light in the hallway, that disappears as quickly as it had appeared, alongside the creek of a sliding door and a slight humidity that creeps into the kitchen and sits around him as he goes to put his mug in the sink. 

“Hey, I’m all done,” Suna’s head pops around the corner, droplets still dripping from his hair and onto the kitchen tile. 

“There’s tea if ya want,” Osamu collects himself, pointing to the cupboard where Suna could choose from the variety of novelty mugs in Osamu’s collection, and turning to head to the shower. 

His mouth dries at the sight and he reminds himself not to scream as he inches around the dampness of Suna’s body that was propped in the archway. He’s blocking the hallway, him and his bare torso and towel wrapped low around his waist. He’s… in Osamu’s way, apologising profusely as he plasters himself to the wall to let Osamu through, hands coming up to surrender and bearing his chest to the world and Osamu veers straight out of the hallway and into his bedroom. 

He snatches his towel and clothes from his bedroom, closing the distance between his room and the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, locking it, and then _breathing_. 

He catches his eye in the mirror and he looks… fine, in all honesty, aside from the redness growing down his neck and kissing the tips of his ears. He buries his head in his hands, trying to shake the image of the few water droplets resting in Suna’s clavicle out of his head. 

He peels away his shirt, throwing it aside to put in his laundry basket later, and the rest of his clothes follow. He doesn’t bother taking another glance at his figure in the mirror beforehand, itching to step under the spray of ice cold water to wash away the dirt and grime of the day and put out the rekindling fire. 

* * *

Warmth fills his lungs and soothes into his skin, like he’s touched the surface of the sun but he’s immune to the heat, like he’s basking in its rays and heat’s being kissed into his cheeks and onto his closed eyelids. When he opens his eyes, he’s not teetering on the edge of the abyss. Instead, the unforgiving mountain that he knows so well isn’t there, as if it was burned to the ground, as if it was never there in the first place. 

What lies in front of Osamu is a field of reds and oranges and yellows and he feels the familiar tug on his heart that tells him to _go_ . And this time, without the threat of oblivion, he steps forward along with the tug of the string and it hurts so much _more_ than ever before. 

When Osamu opens his eyes _again,_ he’s staring at darkness, eyes not yet having adjusted to the red bars of 02:47AM of the alarm clock on his desk, and he groans. There’s a cat screech from outside, and the topple of a trash can and Osamu twists and turns and stretches his blanket off of his burning skin as he tries to will himself back to sleep. It’s useless, and he’s left sitting up, mouth parched and heart aching. His hand comes up to his chest, trying to rub away and smooth out whatever this _feeling_ was, to no avail, and when he runs a hand through his hair he tugs a little to make sure he’s actually awake. 

Water. He needs water. 

Eyes still bleary in the darkness, he reaches over, hand flailing near his alarm clock and chargers as he attempts to grab any form of cup or bottle that may hold anything to quench the dryness of his lips. His head whips to the table in his hand’s unsuccessful steed, squinting to make out the lack of a cup of water on his desk, and he flops onto his back at the realisation. 

_Fuck it_. He’s going back to bed. Pulling the covers up and wrapping them tight around his neck, Osamu waits, rejecting the want to stir and stretch and turn over. The dryness in his mouth battles with him, seemingly getting drier by the second until Osamu can’t help but to throw his duvet off of himself in frustration. 

When he opens his door, there’s a sliver of light that greets him in the hallway, expanding and thickening towards it’s base at the archway of the kitchen and Osamu follows it in, still blinking the sleep and frustration from his eyes. 

“Hey.” It sends a shiver down his spine and he’s jumping at the intrusion of noise in his ears, not having connected the dots between the light in the kitchen and Suna leaning against his counter clutching a glass of water, “you come ‘ere often?” Suna provokes and it’s enough to have Osamu shaking his head in astonishment, huffing out a laugh as he pushes past Suna to get a cup. 

“Can’t sleep?” he doesn’t know what other way there is to pass time, not wanting to chug his water down for fear of looking like an idiot. Suna nods a yes, and Osamu props himself up on the kitchen table, legs dangling as he pushes himself back until the back of his knees hit the edge. 

One of the lightbulbs overhead flickers and cuts out, and Osamu curses to himself, mentally noting to fix it in the later morning. The one bulb that’s left is also on its road to the end, but it’s partner cutting out dims the brightness enough for him to find the confidence to actually look up at Suna and catch his eyes in the darkness. Fuck. 

Suna turns to face him, back leaning against the counter, and he downs the rest of his water, reaching back to place it into the sink. “You followed me back on instagram earlier,” in the darkness Osamu can work out the grin inching onto Suna’s face. Yeah, he did do that. He deleted tinder, too. He takes a gulp of his water, setting it in between his thighs as he watches the curve of Suna’s lips. 

When his eyes flick up to stare into Suna’s sees the other’s eyes dart back to stare into his, too. “Yeah, what about it?” he leans back, his shoulders hitting the wall as he brings the cup to his lips again, cold water cleansing his tongue and healing the dryness in his throat. Osamu can see the way Suna’s throat bobs and his hands come to clutch in the fabric of his sweatpants in the shadows on the room, his smirk faltering and Osamu snatches it to wear himself, the action tugging his lips up. 

Suna doesn’t stay anything in reply, only giving as much as a low hum as he keeps Osamu company. He can have his fun, Osamu thinks, sipping the rest of his water until it’s gone and handing the cup to Suna to put in the sink, “the follow _back_ button looked tempting.” 

“Fuck off.” he hears Suna stifle a laugh, regarless of his foul mouth. 

Osamu thanks the darkness, watching the way streetlight refracts off of the coffee table in the living room and bounces through his open-plan and onto Suna’s collarbones. 

“What? It’s true. Needed a face like that to perk up ‘m confidence when ‘m feeling low,” his assholery comes back when he’s tired, and really he should've kept his throat dry and dying in his bed for fear that he would ruin whatever relationship they had left. Suna laughs and his crisis fizzles out. 

“Oh,” Suna pushes himself away from the counter, leaning into Osamu’s space with his hands shoved into the pockets of sweatpants that hang too low on his hips, “is that what you think?” 

Suna is so close into his personal space that if he inched forward a half step, Osamu thinks he’d be resting in the gap between his knees. His eyes flicker from Suna’s to the shine of the glass in his sink, his throat parching and suddenly he feels warmth creep up his back and wrap around his neck. When he looks back, Suna’s still waiting expectantly, eyebrow raised as if he actually cares about Osamu giving him an answer. 

“Yeah,” it comes out _way_ to breathy for Osamu’s liking, like he’s standing on the edge of a mountain and each breath he exhales threatens him to fall. 

“Yeah?” Suna steps that half inch closer and Osamu swallows. 

“Yeah.” 

The spark on his lips is fleeting, static tingling his skin for a brief second as Suna’s hands run up his thighs to rest on his hips, his thumbs circling pools of heat into Osamu’s skin as they pull away from this briefest of encounters. 

Osamu’s lips sting, craving ease, as he presses his forehead against Suna’s to breathe out a shaky sigh. He can’t remember when he’d closed his eyes, reopening them to watch the way Suna tilts his head into the meat of Osamu’s palm that had made its way to cradle his cheek, lips puckering to place a kiss onto the pad of his thumb. Osamu short circuits, tearing his digit away from Suna’s lips and wrapping his hand around the back of Suna’s neck to pull him in. 

There’s barely a hint of the other’s lips pressed against his, another gentle caress of warmth brushing against his lips and lingering until he’s breathless. Until Suna _kisses_ him, slow, meticulously calculated in the way he parts his lips and swipes heat across Osamu’s. 

Osamu feels a prick of warmth against his waist, Suna’s hands having traversed under his shirt and kneading a firestorm into the muscles of his back before pulling him close, dragging Osamu from his perch on the table until he can feel his heartbeat on his. 

Osamu balances unsteadily against the edge of the table, a leg wrapping around Suna’s waist as the other flails to look for purchase on the tile below him. Suna hooks an arm under Osamu’s knee, guiding his leg to wrap around his waist and join it’s counterpart to enclose him. 

He feels feverish against Suna’s skin, breath hitching as Suna pulls away, sucking a series of reds and blues and purples into the skin under his jaw and behind his ear and Osamu untangles his fingers from Suna’s hair to toy under the front of Suna’s shirt and feel across the muscle of his stomach. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” it’s a harsh, breathless whisper into the darkness as their hips slot firmly together. Suna unlatches from his jaw, peppering kisses up the curve of Osamu’s neck and soothing the bitten skin until his lips reach Osamu’s once more. Their lips fit together, a push and pull of scalding inferno that leaves Osamu nibbling at Suna’s lip to draw a similar shaky breath out of him too. 

“Do you wanna uh..” Suna starts, cut off by the drag of teeth against his collarbone, kneading into the muscle of osamu’s thighs to stabilize himself and Osamu smiles wicked into Suna’s skin, licking a stripe across his handiwork and bringing a hand up to fiddle with the ruff of Suna’s shirt, pulling him in until their lips ghost against each other again. 

“Just not in m’ kitchen,” Osamu pushes away, eyes glinting in the moonlight as he hops off of the table and stretches, back arching as he leads Suna astray from the guest bedroom. 

* * *

Light flickers in through his bedroom window, highlighting the dust weaving through the air and landing on a shirt that had been haphazardly thrown near the door, Osamu blinks awake, muscles aching as he tries to massage the tension out of them with a stretch. 

It’s cold, water droplets clinging to the window, and when Osamu’s hand stretches behind him to grab his phone, he makes note of the distinct chill of his sheets. He groans, rolling into the fabric as he watches the red of his alarm clock tick to 06:17AM. Onigiri Miya opens in 43 minutes, and against the weight of sleep on his shoulders and the dull ache in his thighs, Osamu decides today isn’t going to be the first time he’s late to work. 

He cares enough, however, that he takes his time getting ready, brushing his teeth and ignoring the colour that blooms down his neck as he gets into the shower to wash all of last night, or this morning, off of his skin. 

The water’s too hot, stinging his shoulders as he sighs into the vapour building up in the room, feeling sweat and dried lube dissolve off of his body and down the drain. He takes care when rubbing soap into the curves of his muscles, hands dragging suds over his chest and around his hips and up the insides of his thighs where the skin stretches sensitive. 

Osamu walks into Onigiri Miya with two minutes to spare and a flush on his cheeks.

It’s dark outside by the time Osamu gets home, the sun having retired in favour of the moon taking its pace. It’s dark in his apartment too, but judging by the shoes placed neatly in the genkan, Suna’s home. 

Shrugging off his coat, he goes to unpack, finding himself in the archway of the kitchen cradling the leftover onigiri from the day. It’s a shame, the ingredients would’ve gone to waste if Osamu didn’t have the courtesy to bring them home. 

Halfway to the fridge is when he notices the plastic bag sat central on the kitchen table, stark white against the wood. 

‘ _FOR YOU_ ’ is scrawled bold onto the surface of a post-it note, red ink scribbled messily as Osamu examines the bag’s contents - melon bread and a bottle of orange juice. His mouth waters at the sight, supporting the bottle of juice in his arms as he picks at the plastic packaging of the bread. 

Osamu stands, tearing at the bread and filtering through his cupboards for something more substantial to cook for dinner; onigiri, melon bread, and half a bottle of orange juice deemed unworthy of sending two grown men to bed. It dawns on him that he’d never thanked Suna for the treat even though he’d already been home for an hour, and he finds himself outside the guest room door, fist raised to knock. 

“We… kissed,” Suna’s voice rings from behind the door, heavy with _something_ and Osamu doesn’t want to pry. But he does, holding the bottle to his lips as Suna’s voice suffocates against the door between them. There’s a yelp and a “stop laughing at me,” and then a “it didn’t mean anything.” There’s an awkward laugh and a huff and Osamu pulls the bottle from his lips, licking at the drop of juice that coated them - bitter. 

“I think I fucked up,” it takes a while to reach Osamu’s ears and process, Suna’s voice coming hushed as if he isn’t even talking to the person on the other end of the line anymore, and the bitterness coats Osamu’s tongue further, wrapping the acrid taste around it as his hand comes down from it’s knock. 

There’s a sigh, but all Osamu can focus on is the newfound unsavouriness of the melon bread in his hands, “if you tell anyone I’ll despleen you.” A laugh comes pitchy through the speaker as Osamu makes his way back to the kitchen. 

* * *

He doesn’t see much of Suna for the next four days; half the reason being schedule clashes, the other half being blatant avoidance disguised as the former. Though, the two or so seconds that he does see the other are enough to make his stomach twist and his chest tighten, and the soft smile he gets in return of nothing reminds him that he… _didn’t mean anything_. Which is fine - is what he keeps telling himself. Because it didn’t mean anything to him, either. It was just a slip up. Two grown men and their testosterone battle - that’s it. That’s it. 

His nausea gets worse upon Atsumu’s arrival, blatant, overbearing hormones filling Osamu’s once clean-linen scented living room. Osamu’s dealt the card of seeing Suna longer than a few seconds a day as Atsumu insists they spend his first day in Hyogo together. He can’t blame the man; it’s not like he _told_ Atsumu that anything, if anything, had happened between them. The most Atsumu knew was that Osamu and Suna had texted enough recently that Osamu was letting Suna crash at his place for just over a week. 

As always, however, Osamu comes to the biting and sickening realisation that having Atsumu around has proven beneficial to an extent, with him subduing the tension that Osamu feels in his chest every time he’s forced into the same space as Suna. Atsumu misses them, or the them that they were in high school. It’s obvious from the way he banters with Suna and ignores the fading purple that barely peaks from under Osamu’s collar in favour of opening his stupid mouth to cry over pictures of Sakusa’s new dog. 

He finds himself relaxing in the same space as Suna for the first time in almost a week, draped over Atsumu’s makeshift bed in his living room, and almost forgetting what he’d heard through the guest room door. 

Osamu doesn’t have it in himself to tell his brother that there’s nothing there. 

There’s a chime and a buzz and Atsumu drops his phone on his face, much to Suna’s amusement. Osamu perks up from his slouch into the corner of his sofa, barking a laugh at his brother’s misfortune. 

“That’s it, ‘m goin’ t’ Kita-san’s,” Atsumu says it like a revelation, to either Suna, or Osamu, or to them both. 

“Because we laughed at you?” Suna chimes in before Osamu manages to do so himself and Atsumu huffs, sticking his tongue out like an overgrown child and Osamu thinks about offering Sakusa a penny for his troubles. 

“Late bee-dee present,” he grins, shoving his phone in his pocket as he extends his hand for Osamu’s spear key. 

He gives it no questions asked, like an idiot, and when Atsumu’s five minutes out of Osamu’s front door his phone buzzes, a banner popping up at the top of his screen and he clicks. 

**[04:27 PM] TSUMU :** ;-( 

**[04:27 PM] TSUMU :** ;-) *

He groans as he blocks Atsumu’s number. 

* * *

Osamu struggles with his tie against the collar of his shirt. He looks too… formal. He looks as if he’s going to a wedding rather than to a high school reunion, yet he fumbles with the stretch of fabric regardless. It falls loosely around his neck, a sloppy accent across the white of his shirt. He’d never been good at tying one of these things, having worn them carelessly around his neck in all the years he had to suffer with them. 

He shuffles, pulling at his collar as he makes eye contact with his reflection. There’s a knock and he hums, loosening the fabric again from where he’d bunched it up to his top button, and when the door opens he’s greeted with a laugh and Suna’s reflection standing a foot behind his own. 

“Why are you putting a tie on?” the question comes like a suckerpunch, ripping Osamu’s hands away from where they'd gripped the fabric, “you’re going to a reunion, not a wake.” Osamu huffs, eyeing the looseness of Suna’s shirt. 

There’s a brief moment where Suna just stands there, shoulder perched and steadying himself on the doorway as his weight shifts to lean against it. Osamu would’ve walked away if it wasn’t for the obstruction and if he hadn’t already caught Suna’s eyes in the reflection. 

Osamu expects it when Suna inches closer and stands in the way of Osamu’s view in the mirror, toying at the cloth before tugging it out from under Osamu’s collar and throwing it to the side to free Osamu’s neck of the constraint. Osamu swallows, as if he didn’t have any room to do so beforehand with the godforsaken thing tied around his neck, regardless of the extent of its fix. There’s a brush of warmth across his neck where Suna’s hands graze the skin to undo the first two buttons of his shirt, exposing almost unblemished skin if it wasn’t for the slight purple now barely visible in the dip of Osamu’s clavicle. 

“There,” Suna tugs at Osamu’s shirt, loosening it from it’s tuck into his jeans, and then smooths a hand down his front to calm the fabric, “perfect.” 

The smile on his face is softer than Osamu remembers, marred by seemingly nothing until it distorts into a grimace at Atsumu’s presence in the doorway. There’s a gagging noise that comes from behind Osamu and he turns to face the culprit. 

“Can ya like… not?” is what follows Atsumu’s turmoil, his ugly face contorted as he picks at the wax holding his hair in place. 

Osamu ignores him after that, picking his fancy jacket off of his bedside and pulling an arm through one of the sleeves as he pushes Suna away. “Gonna be late,” he pauses, watching Suna again in the reflection as Suna nods and departs to get his own belongings, red tinting his ears. 

They’d been calling it a highschool reunion, but really it was just them sitting around in a rented party room at the back of a nice-enough restaurant with their 2nd year volleyball team. 

Osamu wouldn’t change it for the world, not when he’s now the proud owner of yet another set of sloppy pictures of Atsumu draped over Aran’s shoulder and crying at Akagi about missing Hyogo and then missing Osaka and then missing Omikun and then missing Osamu’s cooking. It’s not a pretty sight, especially with the lack of alcohol coursing through their veins. They’re getting drunk on life - alcohol at this place’s _expensive_. Atsumu’s ugly face looks up at him, snotty and tear-stricken and it’s funnier in their sobriety. He makes a mental note to thank Kita for the reservation. 

He was sat at the end of the table with the man in question to his left, phone raised upright in a continuous capture of the disaster that was his brother. Osamu had spent a lot of time with Kita over the years, especially with the partnership between their businesses, so he found himself in a comfortable silence beside him as they watched the battle between Atsumu and Akagi’s sanity unfold. 

Kita’s foot nudges him, pulling his focus from capturing the worst angle of Atsumu imaginable. “Osamu,” he hums back at the call, leaning against the wall to try to steady the wavering of his arm. Kita nods at him, then to the other corner of the table, “Suna.” Osamu stops recording. 

When he looks over to the other side of the room, Suna’s also laughing at Atsumu, only pausing briefly to take a sip of his drink. His cheeks are rosy, likely from the heat of exchanges in the room, and his laughter dies down into a faint smile when he catches Osamu’s focus on him. 

The way Suna looks at him, eyes full of mirth and lips tinged scarlet, makes Osamu want to scream. He settles, instead, on slouching against the wall and looking back at Kita with a huff and an eyebrow raised in question. 

“Atsumu came over,” he takes a sip from his cup and then picks at the cubes of onion dotted around his plate, “‘n I can see that hickey from a mile away,” Osamu slaps a hand onto his neck, glaring at the sound of the short Suna-coloured laugh that pops up at the other side of the room. “Take yer hand down, ya look stupid,” Osamu guffaws, pulling the collar of his shirt up slightly before retracting his hand. 

“What are ya gettin’ at?” Osamu takes another look at Suna, watching the pull of his lips in conversation and the shimmer of dew across his neck. Kita shrugs, picking up a singular grain of rice and chewing it out of his chopsticks. 

“Did ya make up?” 

“Huh?” 

“Highschool.” His choice of words are deliberate, calculated in the way they punch embarrassment into Osamu’s gut. 

“How did ya know?” Osamu questions him because it’s the only thing he can do. He and Suna had kept whatever this thing was between them as secretive as two teens could, only reaching out to tell someone when Atsumu caught them kissing around the corner that one time he actually went to take out the trash.

Kita looks at him pointedly, placing his chopsticks down and swirling his drink, “it was obvious.” Oh. He finds himself in an awkward silence with the man for the first time since his first year of highschool, “well?”

“No.”

Kita raises a brow at him, taking his phone out and turning back around to laugh at Atsumu. “I don’t know what happened between ya, but it’s nice all bein’ together again, no?” Osamu frowns into his drink as he looks onto Atsumu and Aran and Akagi and Suna and Gin and _his friends_ and it is nice. And aside from the hammering in his chest he… feels nice, and when he scans the room to look at Suna for the nth time that evening he decides that Suna _looks_ nice. It _is_ nice - he missed them. 

The rest of the night is a blur now taking up the storage in his camera roll.

* * *

It’s half past 2AM when he catches Atsumu sneaking a foot out of his front door with the spare key in his hand. 

“What the fuck,” he’s groggy from sleep, the noise of Atsumu rattling around in the living room having woken him up. 

Atsumu grins his pearly whites, “there’s fireworks at the park,” and then Osamu sees a flash of red and blue alight in Atsumu’s hair before he even begins to register the bang that primed it.

“Why?” Atsumu shrugs, tugging the hood of his hoodie further atop his head and pulling the drawstrings to tighten. 

“I can wait fer ya if ya wanna come with me,” there’s another bang and a flash of orange and Osamu sees the way Atsumu’s practically vibrated 90 percent of his body out of his front door and declines his offer with a hum and then sends Atsumu off. 

They’re sending Suna off, too, and he texts Atsumu to not come home too late and miss it even though Atsumu’ll see him again on court sometime in the near future. 

When he pockets his phone he’s too awake to go back to sleep, having been distracted by the bright white of his phone screen and the bright red and blue and purple that dots the sky. His phone chimes in his pocket and he ignores it in favour of boiling water and playing with the string of a teabag. 

The tea’s oversteeped again, and he sits at his table watching a flash of green light up and disappear across the sky. He plays with the string, pulling it up to bounce the tea bag in the water. There’s a cough by the archway and the wetness of the string reflects the red that flares outside his window and he brings the cup up to his lips to sip as Suna joins him by the table with a cup of his own filled with ice-cold water. When the characteristic bitterness of oversteeped tea coats his tongue, he realises that he doesn’t even like tea. 

They sit in silence watching the bright flashes of colour litter the sky, it’s peaceful to an extent. It’s peaceful until the overbearing cut of a string wrapped tight around his heart pains him enough for a tear to threaten to spill. Suna’s finger plays with the condensation on his glass, earning a squeak and Osamu swallows the lump in his throat with the next sip of his tea. “Do ya regret it?” he’s the first to break the silence, for once. 

Suna’s finger pauses in its activity, “what?”

“Ya said ya fucked up,” he takes another sip and his tongue’s raw from the taste of dirt that permeates, “‘s okay if it didn’t mean anythin’ but - ”

“What are you talking about?” Osamu looks at him and there’s a pang of realisation that flashes across his eyes along with a flush of red that highlights them, “is this why you’ve been avoiding me?” Osamu looks away, finding solace in a cat that runs across the street and a leaf that blows past the window, “Osamu, I was talking to my sister and she misses you and I couldn’t get her hopes up for _us_ if there even is an _us_ ,” he rambles, setting aside his cup to properly face him.

“What do ya want from me, Rin?” 

“What?” 

He looks at him. Osamu really _looks_ at him for what feels like the first time in a week, for the first time in four years, “what do ya _want_ ,” it’s barely a question at this point, more of a hushed plea if anything. Suna swallows and Osamu stops looking at him, finding interest in a different leaf that blows across and lands on the windowsill. 

“I don’t know.” His words hurt Osamu more than the tightening in his chest has for the last decade of his life, as if Suna spent their four years together gently unravelling the string that wound around his heart only to carve each letter of his name into each chamber. 

Comfort is found in each divot that litters his ceiling, bracing the weight of his head against the wall, “okay.” It’s his cue to stand and leave and retreat back into the confines of his room to wait out Suna’s eventual departure in the later morning. 

When he passes Suna on his way out of the kitchen, Suna tries to catch the fabric of his jumper, tugging at his sleeve in one quick motion then letting go as if it burned him. “I want things to go back to the way they were.”  
  
Osamu’s focus remains on the arch and the abyss of his hallway as he cradles his sleeve to his chest, “like when ya lead me on four years ‘n’ then told me ya didn’t love me?” It hurts and there’s three consecutive flashes of red in the sky until the sparks diffuse into gold. 

“I did love you.” 

“Not enough,” he swallows, he shouldn’t have forgiven Suna at the cash register of Onigiri Miya, “ya told me ya didn’t love me _enough_.” 

“I did love you.” Another flash of red. 

He laughs, it’s bitter like the juice Suna left on the table at the start of the week, “fuck off.” 

“Why don’t you believe me?” Osamu hears the pain in Suna’s voice that he wished he’d have heard when he’d first seen the man at his booth in Osaka. 

“Because ya walked up t’ me after four years of jackshit nothin’ ‘n’ said ‘hey’ as if we were still 18.” he feels so utterly vile at the thought, carding a hand through his hair and he leans with a back turned to Suna and a flash of red to highlight his frame. 

“I loved you when we were 18.”

“But ya don’t anymore.” he says it with finality, as if he were ready to finish the chapter of a book, as if he’d taken a sledgehammer to his heart to free it from it’s confines by breaking his heart himself. 

Suna laughs, it’s sad and it makes Osamu’s blood boil red-hot and steaming until he turns and sees the defeated, “do you think i’ve changed much since then?” Suna’s voice comes soft and broken into the night and it brings Osamu’s temperature down to just below freezing. 

“Yeah,” _No._

Do you ever really change? He’d like to think so. If someone told Osamu that he hasn’t changed much since highschool he’d want to crawl into a hole and die, yet Suna’s here embracing his fortitude, and it makes Osamu sick. 

Everything about Suna screams immortality. He’s changed, by a lot actually; he’s gotten stronger, grown more confident. His voice is smoother than it was and his hands a little rougher than they were, but he’s still Suna - still Rintarou. Everything, from the way he walks to the way he’s weighed down by a slouch to the way a smile tugs the right side of his lips up into a smirk, mirrors Osamu’s memory into disbelief. He’s changed, but then he hasn’t, and he’s Rintarou all the same.

Suna stands from his position, now eye-level with Osamu and blocking the blue that flashes into silver in the sky, “I wasn’t ready, Osamu.” 

“Four years didn’t help ya enough?” he looks past Suna’s shoulder into the sky behind him, ignoring the tear that slips and collects in the dip of Suna’s collarbone and reflects the green that flashes outside. He catches his image’s attention in the window, suddenly aware of his own tear-stricken cheek when a beam of purple shoots up and glints into the reflection. 

“I wasn’t _ready_ ,” his hands come up pleading against Osamu’s jaw and Osamu brings his own up to join them where they cradle on his skin. “I’m sorry,” another tear slips down Suna’s cheek and Osamu tears a hand away from his face to cradle Suna’s own. “I’m sorry, Osamu. I’m so so sorry,” whispered like a broken record player into the night and Osamu wants the music to stop for fear of the tug it causes in his chest. 

The fireworks subside and they bask in the silence, holding each others tear-stricken faces in the lamplight, “I’m ready to love you.” Suna’s voice flickers, dying like a spark in the wind. “Please let me love you,” Osamu thumbs at Suna’s bottom lip to silence him, resting his forehead against Suna’s in a plea for him to stop. He doesn’t, whispering _“please, please, please,”_ against the air between their lips. 

“I’m scared.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I can’t love you, Rin.” He feels the rise of tension in Suna’s shoulders and hears the shake of his voice as he takes a steadying breath and another tear falls and caresses the pad of his thumb before it dissolves out of sight. 

“You don’t have to.” 

“But, I do.” the confession’s whispered against Suna’s lips in a gentle brush that has three tears fall hastily down his cheek in surrender, “I do.” 

A sob tears ungracefully through Suna’s throat and Osamu swallows it down with the soothing touch of his lips and their tears mingle like the way the fireworks did 10 minutes prior. For the first time, Osamu’s heart feels at ease as it beats in rhythm with the other one against his chest. 

Suna’s lips are soft and bitten and burn heat into his own and for once he lets the fire consume him and he decides that he likes the burn after all.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> hope u enjoyed!! im in a constant state of suffering and its because of these two. 
> 
> comments + kudos appreciated :)
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/onigirisuna?s=20)


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